


The King of Stormwind

by Kranja



Series: Lords of the Black Flight [2]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Black Dragonflight, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2454605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kranja/pseuds/Kranja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one in Stormwind is going to be terribly pleased about all these black dragons suddenly everywhere.  Or, Anduin Gets His Groove Back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King of Stormwind

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to The Dragon king and will not make a single lick of sense if you haven't read that first! Also spoilers as of the first line! Big, big spoilers!

In his lifetime, King Anduin Wrynn of Stormwind has been granted very few moments of real peace and rest. Even after he should be dead, even after his literally miraculous rescue and transformation, it seems this still holds true.

It’s barely moments after Anduin has stumbled from one end of his chamber to the other, testing the strength of his new legs with Wrathion hovering at his side like a giant black mother hen, that the door of his bedroom swings open. A maid takes one step in, looks up, and goes very still.

Anduin cringes. At his side, Wrathion gives a soft, dismayed hiss.

“Oh,” says the maid. Anduin lifts a paw, not sure whether to move towards her or try to speak, but the motion jars her out of her shock and she stumbles back, firewood hitting the floor with a rattle, screaming, “Guards! To the King! Guards, help, hurry, please!”

“Er,” says Wrathion.

“Oh, dear,” sighs Anduin.

The maid flees in a whirl of petticoats, and Anduin listens as alarmed shouts echo back through the palace. Heavy booted feet tromp across the flagstones, and several heavily armed Stormwind guards burst through the doors, spears at the ready. He can already hear the shouting and pounding feet of reinforcements gathering lower in the depths of the building. The guards gather in formation just inside the door and set their shields in a defensive wall, but they don’t charge just yet. Anduin’s newly-sharpened hearing picks up snatches of uncertain muttering—“ _Two_ of them? Thought they were extinct!” and “But the King, where’s the King,” and “That’s the one that’s always hanging around, but the other, I don’t….”

Moving with exaggerated slowness, Anduin tilts his head towards Wrathion, and speaks in a low voice. “First, how long does it take to learn how to turn into a human, and second, will I still look like me if I do?” It’s the first time the second thought has occurred to him, and he’s surprised for a moment over how anxious he is for the answer.

“Not long at all, it can be learned in minutes,” Wrathion replies. “But…the second part, I don’t know. Probably something very much like. But at best….not one of these guards is over fifty. You’re ninety, which is barely out of adolescence for a dragon. Your human form is going to look…hmm…perhaps eighteen? Unless one of these guards spends a lot of time studying historical portraits, I don’t think they’ll know you.”

“Damn,” Anduin says softly, and turns carefully back to the guards. He sits, pulling his wings in tight and ducking his head as nonthreateningly as he can, and bats at Wrathion’s leg with his tail until Wrathion does the same. “Friends, please be calm,” he says to the bristling formation at the door. Some of the guards shift at the familiar voice, and he hears another wave of low-voiced questions sweep through them. “I know this will be hard to accept, but everything is all right. I am your King, Anduin Wrynn, son of Varian and father of Anson, and I am not harmed. Changed, somewhat,” he adds, tilting his head wryly, “But unharmed.”

The formation draws apart in two halves suddenly as a lone figure pushes through the middle, this one with a captain’s stripes on the shoulders of his gleaming silver armor. One hand hovers by his sword hilt as he pulls his helmet off with the other, revealing a square, craggy face with curly brown hair touched by silver at the temples. Anduin relaxes a hair—they’re still in trouble, but he knows this man to be even-tempered and sensible. “Captain Falthom,” he greets. “Late as ever I see.” He feels Wrathion twitch sharply at his shoulder, but the captain relaxes a hair.

“Suppose some impostor would be trying to talk a bit nicer, rather than baiting the man that could send six score spearmen at its throat with a word,” he says. “And suppose the King would be the only one as knew I’d know what he was referencing by that. But still, this is a bit of a strange one. Don’t suppose it’d be impossible that some really clever sort could figure those things out.”

“Your caution in service of your duty is right and honorable, of course,” Anduin says, forcing his voice to polite calm.

Captain Falthom snorts. “And that’s even a bit more convincing,” he says. “Known our King long enough to know his damn-these-politics voice. So, we’ll get on with it, then. What in the Light happened?” As he speaks, he flashes a hand signal to the guards behind him. They straighten and rest their spear butts against the ground, though not without some grumbling and hesitation.

“I was dying,” Anduin says. “Everyone knew it. Wrathion saved me. Or, more accurately, Wrathion thought up how to save me, and made sure it happened. Others helped.” He pauses briefly, turning back to Wrathion. “Did they mention to you whether they would want their involvement known?” Wrathion shrugs, still watching the spearheads closely. “Well, hopefully they won’t mind. Messages can be sent to Alexstrasza the Lifebinder, Kalecgos the Spellweaver, and O’ros of the Exodar to confirm everything we say.”

“Ah,” Captain Falthom says, his face lightening. “Now the Dragon Queen’s word is above reproach of course. Very helpful that would be. Not that Your Majesty’s word can be questioned, but whether you are in fact His Majesty he very question before us, if you see what I mean.”

Anduin feels a deep, irritated rumble start up in his chest, and checks it before it’s loud enough to be heard across the grand room. _That’s new,_ he thinks. _Have to watch for that one._ Out loud he replies, “Yes, of course. She was here less than an hour ago—if we’re lucky we can catch her before she gets too far out of the city. The less time it takes to send a message, the better.”

“Actually, I thought this might happen, so I stayed _very_ close,” says a musical voice from behind the mass of guards.

Several heads whip around, though most of the guards are too well-disciplined to take their eyes off the two black drakes. Alexstrasza stands a little back from the doorway, a small smile on her curved lips, a humorous quirk to the angle of her eyebrows.

“Oh, and you couldn’t have simply stayed _in the room,_ of course,” Wrathion snaps, his patience for staying still and quiet running abruptly out.

Her smile widens a fraction. “Of course. It was quite clear you children deserved a moment’s peace. I admit, the maid slipped by me, or I would have been back sooner, though.” She tilts her head slightly down in a playful mockery of an apology, then turns to the captain. “Captain…Falthom, was it?” she asks politely, and he simply nods, wide-eyed. It’s not an unusual reaction to someone’s first encounter with the Dragon Queen. “I am honored to meet such a wise and cautious man. Stormwind must be proud to have you. Now, be at ease. I can in fact confirm without reservation that this black drake before you is indeed your King, Anduin Wrynn of Stormwind.”

A low sigh goes through the guards, and Captain Falthom finally relaxes entirely, a broad smile spreading over his face. “That’s a relief, and no mistake, my lady, and glad I am to hear it. My apologies, then, Your Majesty, and I hope I’ve given no offense.”

“Of course not, Captain, you are to be commended,” Anduin says, a little giddy with relief. “Now, I never intended to keep this a secret, but as far as I had made any plans—it’s been not even an hour, I haven’t yet had time to give it much thought—I did hope to break the news somewhat more gradually. That’s not going to happen now, I imagine, so. Damage control. My Lady Alexstrasza, I hate to ask it, I know you have duties of your own to attend to, but it would be very helpful if you could stay near for a day or so to verify who I am.” He looks over to her for a moment, and she nods regally. “Thank you. You, Guardswoman Jenkins.” One of the guards jerks upright, hand flying to her brow in an automatic salute. “Please send messengers to all of my Council. I require a full meeting at their earliest possible convenience.” He lets a thread of command creep into his voice on the word _convenience,_ and the guardswoman’s eyes narrow in understanding as she salutes again and turns crisply on her heel. “Captain Falthom, please try and get a handle on the fascinating rumors I’m certain are springing up all over the castle even now. There’s only so much to be done before the full explanation before the council, but in the meantime if I can avoid being confronted by any well-meaning adventurers, I would appreciate it. Oh, but send for my son, he deserves to hear about this first.”

“Aye, your majesty, that I will,” the captain replies, then salutes sharply and turns to his guards. “You heard the King, lads and lassies, now let’s leave them be. It’s the early hours yet, and I’m sure His Majesty has plenty to do before the afternoon. About face!”

Anduin holds himself upright until the last guard is out the door and Alexstrasza has slipped through, closing it gently behind her, then sags with a long sigh. Wrathion, in contrast, surges up into restless motion, pacing anxiously. “Well,” he says, flicking his wings out and back. “Well, this is going to get interesting.”

“Did you really think it wouldn’t?” Anduin asks from his place on the floor.

Wrathion slows for a moment. His wings mantle briefly around his shoulders before he settles them with an apparent effort. “I was rather more concerned with making certain there would be an after _to_ worry about than I was with planning what would happen _in_ that time. As you said yourself, it hasn’t been long enough. That maid might at least have given us until the sunrise. An hour to plan, that’s all I want. Of course we cannot even have that.”

Alexstrasza clears her throat delicately, and they both turn to her. “Lord Wrathion, the Prince will likely be here soon to speak to his father,” she says. “The next few days will likely be eventful, but at some point in the centuries to come I am certain you will have time to share with King Anduin. Right now, the Prince deserves his father’s full attention. Let us give them some time.”

“Oh, very _well,_ you’re correct, I’m sure,” Wrathion sighs in his most aggrieved tones, and Anduin suppresses a snicker. Grumbling all the while, he strides over to the window, blinking through his human form just long enough to throw it wide and jump out. Anduin smiles fondly after him, and Alexstrasza shakes her head with a faint chuckle.

“I will excuse myself as well, of course, but I think I will stay long enough to put any fears the young prince might have to rest, with your permission,” she says, and Anduin nods. The reality of the coming conversation hits him in a rush, and he swallows nervously, hardly even distracted by the utterly _bizarre_ feeling of throat muscles clenching in a line down a throat only recently measurable in yards. He settles on his haunches facing the door, barely restraining himself from gouging the stone floor with his claws. Alexstrasza stands next to him, resting a light, reassuring hand on his shoulder.

The knock on the door comes mere moments later, and Anduin twitches. “Enter,” he calls, and it swings open. He’s not sure if the guardsman behind it was one of the ones who came in earlier, but the man doesn’t gasp or seem surprised, so he’s at least been briefed.

“Your Majesty, His Highness to see you,” he says, and Anduin nods as calmly as he can. The man steps aside, and Anduin’s son Prince Anson steps into the room.

He’s a man in his late forties, as powerfully built as his famous grandfather, with his father’s warm blue eyes and his mother’s perfectly straight, blacker-than-black hair. He pauses briefly just inside the door, then strides forward, face unreadable except for his slightly widened eyes. Stopping just before Anduin and Alexstrasza, he nods politely to the Dragon Queen. “My lady,” he murmurs, soft-voiced.

“Prince Anson,” she replies. “I will let the two of you speak, but know on my honor, this is your father, King Anduin Wrynn of Stormwind, and he is healthy and well, free of illness or undue influence. The change you see was in part wrought by myself, and the working was strong and without flaw. I have made very sure.” Before he can reply she bows her head very slightly to him, a hair deeper to Anduin, and slips quickly out through the door, leaving the black drake and the human man staring at each other.

“Father?” Anson asks hesitantly.

“Yes,” Anduin replies, then hesitates, not sure what to do or say. They both stand like that for a long moment.

“Please stop looking so nervous, I think that’s the strangest part,” Anson says in a sudden rush. It startles a laugh out of Anduin and forces him to relax.

“I’m…still adjusting myself. It was Wrathion’s idea, of course, though I don’t know how he managed to talk the others into it. But in any case, it seems to be permanent.”

Anson’s smile vanishes and he ducks his head with a low, shuddery gasp. Anduin is halfway to his feet before his son shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry, I just…you were going to _die._ Father. I was going to _lose_ you. I’m s-so glad—” His voice chokes off, and he glances briefly up, tears shining in his eyes.

Dragons don’t produce tears, not like humans do, but Anduin’s throat closes up in distress. He steps forward hurriedly and rests a very careful forepaw on Anson’s shoulder. “I’m all right, son, I’ll be fine, for a long time yet to come. All right then?”

“Your eyes are the same,” Anson says, and Anduin blinks a little in surprise. “It’s a little strange at first—I don’t think black dragons usually have blue eyes. But it’s…good. It helps. You still look like you, a bit.”

“I haven’t really had a chance to look in a mirror yet,” Anduin admits, stepping back. “It’s all been very sudden. Wait, there’s, now I have to look.” He whirls, and drags a big, full-length mirror on a heavy wooden stand out from behind a curtain near the bed. It takes some maneuvering to get a look at him—it’s big for a human, but he can’t see more than bits of himself at a time. He has the beginnings of adult horns budding at the base of his skull, and a slight ridge down the front center of his throat that will soon lengthen into the full-length frill of an adult dragon. His scales are smooth and healthy, but he just can’t get enough of himself into the mirror to get an idea of his overall build. “I can’t _see,_ ” Anduin complains. “Not that I even know much about what’s considered attractive in dragons. This is frustrating.”

“Are…are you…” Anson says, suppressed laughter making his voice shake. “Are you worrying about what Wrathion is going to think of how you _look?"_ Anduin blinks and whips his head around, staring with sudden guilt into his son’s laughing face. “Oh, oh Light have mercy,” Anson wheezes. “Oh, Father, you’re an _adolescent_ again.” And then he breaks down entirely, gripping the top of a high chair for support as he howls in laughter, eyes squeezed shut and his free hand wrapped around his stomach.

“I…oh, Light, I _am,_ ” Anduin says, and sits down hard. That only sets Anson off harder, and he nearly crumples at the chagrined look on his father’s face. Anduin waits for him to quiet. Then waits some more. Then finally snaps, “All right, all _right,_ will you _stop?_ ”

Anson chokes the laughter down, wiping tears away, and Anduin realizes that at least a little of that outburst had come from his relief that his father is still alive. “We, uh, we have to, oh, Father, the Council is going to _explode_ over this, you know,” he says, steadying his voice as he goes. “There’s enough people on it who know about Katrana Prestor that no black dragon is ever going to be welcome in Stormwind. Even Wrathion has to sneak in half the time, after all these years. What will they think of one as _king?_ ”

“You’re right, of course,” Anduin says, folding his wings primly in a gesture he will only later realize is in imitation of Wrathion. “Good, I’m glad one of us is thinking clearly. This is going to take more getting used to than I thought.” And then, an idea strikes him, and a slow grin pulls his lips back from his teeth. “But I know what I’m going to do about the Council.”

“Uh. Father. What are you planning?”

Anduin starts pacing, a spark of mischief lightening his heart. “Oh, I have an idea. A wonderful, wonderful idea. But I’m not going to tell you. That would spoil the surprise.”

“Surprise? No matter how you’re doing it, I don’t think surprising the Council is a _good_ idea. Father, what?”

“Shush, let me have my moment. It’s going to be _glorious._ "

Anson sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. “Oh, Light, this is going to be something, isn’t it? Just…don’t do anything rash? Promise me you’ll think it through before the Council meeting?”

“How did you come out so level-headed?” Anduin asks fondly. “Can’t have been me, stuffing your head since you were a baby with stories of your father running wild in Pandaria at fifteen. But don’t worry, I promise I’ll consider what I’m doing very carefully. I don’t think I’ll change my mind, though.”

\---

“Absolutely preposterous—"

“Can’t believe you’d even _suggest_ we accept—"

“Never! I say never!”

Anduin suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Usually he’s better at keeping his patience in Council meetings, but his newly recovered energy jitters under his scales.

He stretches across the floor of the council chamber, in front of a throne he can’t possibly sit in just now that’s been pulled well back to give him space at the great table, with Alexstrasza to his left and Anson to his right. Wrathion, much to his stridently vocal displeasure, has been—barely—convinced that his presence would not be helpful in this particular meeting. There are still too many people on the Council who vocally dislike their King’s visible but undefined—in public—attachment to a black dragon. He had offered to teach Anduin to change forms before the meeting, but Anduin had declined, some long-buried streak of rebellion in his nature clawing its way free and insisting that he show the Council, right up front, exactly what they were dealing with.

“My lords, my ladies, assembled dignitaries,” he says, drawing upright. “I understand your concerns, but Queen Alexstrasza has vouched for my identity, my health, and my sanity. What more can I do to reassure you that I am still fit to rule?”

There’s a rustling and a muttering, and finally one lord rises to stand. “Your Majesty,” he begins, and Anduin pretends not to notice his slight hesitation over the title. “I am not sure we _can_ be reassured. The Dragon Queen is trustworthy, of course, but the history of Stormwind and the Black Dragonflight is…not a peaceful one, as Your Majesty knows better than any. Perhaps we could convince the people that Your Majesty is uncompromised. Perhaps they could be convinced to allow a black dragon on the throne of Stormwind, as they have attempted before. But there is the matter of Your Majesty’s…particular friend, the Black Prince Wrathion. He is the leader of the black flight. Does this…development…not put Your Majesty in some way…under his command? That could not be borne.”

Anduin closes his eyes for a moment, suddenly very, very glad they had convinced Wrathion to stay out. He can think of a few ways his dragon might react to that, and any one of them expressed in front of the Council would be _terrible._ He stands slowly, looking at each of his councilors in turn. “Is this how you all feel?” he asks. No one speaks, but there are a few nods, some firm gazes meeting his, some eyes turned away. Anduin nods.

“Very well. It occurs to me, if the Black Aspect Wrathion had not intervened, I would have died some time during the night and my son Prince Anson would now be King of Stormwind. That, I am sure, would have been acceptable to you? It is my belief that my son would be a fine, worthy King. Do you share it?”

Confusion, now, in their gazes, but there is no uncertainty in the murmurs of agreement. The standing lord furrows his brow. “Of course Prince Anson will be a fine king when the time comes, but since Your Majesty is now effectively immortal from a human standpoint….”

“Good,” Anduin interrupts. “I abdicate the crown.”

There’s a moment of utter, shocked silence, then the council chamber explodes. Lords and ladies are leaping to their feet, shouting over each other, waving their arms at him. Anduin grins wildly somewhere deep inside as a few fistfights break out. By his side, Alexstrasza has one hand clapped firmly over her mouth under her laughing eyes, and Anson has fallen back a step to stare at him in utter shock. Anduin settles back and lets the chaos continue for a solid few minutes, before finally sighing and taking a deep breath, filling his lungs to their new, massive capacity before bellowing, _“My lords, for shame!”_

The hubbub dies down, the council members hurriedly straightening their clothes as they settle shame-faced back into their seats. The spokesman scrabbles his papers back into some order as he stumbles back to place, clearing his throat anxiously. “Your Majesty, I, that is, we the Council, uh, are, are you sure?” he manages.

“Yes,” Anduin says firmly. “If Wrathion had not intervened, I would be dead, Anson would be King, and this conversation would not be taking place. I have no objections to avoiding the first part of that, but the rest seems right enough to me. Shall I repeat myself? I, Anduin Llane Wrynn, King of Stormwind, do hereby renounce my title and my crown in favor of my son, Anson Westfield Wrynn, Prince of Stormwind, forever and without reservation, into his hands and guidance, and that of his heirs, as long as the line of Wrynn and the kingdom of Stormwind stand.”

Silence. He looks at each councilor in turn and sees confusion, surprise, but also a few slow, thoughtful nods. “Good then, that’s settled,” he says, a bubble of utter glee rising in his chest. “Anson, this is your problem now.” And he sweeps out of the council chamber, tucking his wings close to clear the door.

Just outside, a startlingly strong hand shoots out and grabs the short horn on his nose, jerking his head down. Anduin blinks guilelessly into Wrathion’s stunned face. “Ah, so you were listening,” he says mildly.

“You _idiot,”_ Wrathion hisses. “That was…you glorious, gorgeous _idiot._ I can’t _believe_ you did that. What were you _thinking?_ ”

“That I’m tired of the whole thing, and I’m supposed to be done with it, so now I am,” he replies cheerfully. “Want to get out of here?”

Wrathion’s mouth works soundlessly for a moment, and Anduin grins dragon-fierce. Even he can’t render Wrathion truly speechless very often, and it’s even rarer in public. Eventually he finds his voice, but only for a single word. “Sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be _short_ *sobs*
> 
> Course, I really only had it planned from the Council meeting on when I was planning it out. The first bit took way longer to get through than I thought it would.


End file.
